


Photo-Proofed Kisses

by 1833outboy (phancon)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Cards, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 12:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17121743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phancon/pseuds/1833outboy
Summary: When you’re living with someone, and you love them desperately, and they still love you – even if it’s not the way you want – things can get… muddled.It’s this that Pete will blame for everything that happens the Christmas everything changes.





	Photo-Proofed Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> so, this story changed about fifty times before i finally settled on this. it was gonna be way longer, even. but i'm... slow, that wouldn't have been done til next christmas. 
> 
> anyway. happy holidays and happy new year and all that, i hope you like it.

The worst part about being in love with your roommate-slash-bestfriend, Pete has learnt, is having something so, _so_ close to perfect, but with that one small, hollow, aching hole _gaping_ in the middle of the entire God damn thing. He should count himself lucky, really. There’s a pure domestic kind of bliss to live in close quarters with somebody you love that you also see every day, somebody you’re familiar enough with to hug, to lay your head on the lap of, to sit too close to, to tease, to nag, to berate, to make laugh.

But that’s where it ends. Pete can’t collapse onto the sofa against Patrick after a long day and expect much more than gentle brushing of rough guitar string smelling hands against his messy black hair. He can’t pull full lips against his own by the collar of Patrick’s Bowie shirt; he can’t whisper terrible things at the lobe of his ear or expect the hand curling through his hair to move to the button of his jeans.

He and Patrick are pretty intimate at times – maybe more intimate than most best friends – but they’ll never be _that_ intimate.

But Christ, Pete _wants_ it. He wants it so badly sometimes he feels like he’s going mad just from the pure presence of Patrick in his life. Sometimes he looks at his life next to Patrick’s and wonders how it’s not obvious, wonders how he hasn’t broken entirely and bled out his love for that stupid beautiful fucking man. It’s so hard not to snap when they’re already living the perfect life in every other aspect.

When you’re living with someone, and you love them desperately, and they still love you – even if it’s not the way you want – things can get… muddled.

It’s this that Pete will blame for everything that happens the Christmas everything changes.

**

It begins with Pete coming home from some Christmas shopping one evening in mid-December and finding Patrick sitting at their kitchen table, staring morosely at a couple of Holiday cards as though they bore the worse kind of news. Pete is momentarily alarmed that maybe they _do_ bear awful news, except then he realises that the cards haven’t even been taken out of their envelopes yet.

He drops his bag (containing just one present – a Star Wars figurine for Andy, the only thing he was successful in buying; no matter, he’ll try again at the weekend) and slips off his shoes with a frown. “Uh, Trick?” His eyes flicker to Patrick’s. The pang that hits him as deep ocean eyes meet his through thick framed glasses is so familiar at this point, he barely lets it bother him. Barely. “Bud, you okay?” he asks.

“No,” Patrick says, leaning back in his chair and swiping a hand through strawberry blond hair. He’s not wearing his hat, but that’s not unusual when he hasn’t been working. “We have four more Holiday cards, Pete. Four!” He’s drilling Pete with a stare that is clearly supposed to assert this as devastating news.

“Uh. Okay.” Pete moves to the fridge in search for some leftover pizza, giving an awkward shrug. “Do we not have room or something?” he asks, thinking of the overfull coffee table in the living room. Patrick’s newest career move as the singer of nearby bars and new position of local semi-celebrity means they’ve acquired quite a large circle of friends and acquaintances lately.

“Probably not,” says Patrick, opening a couple of the cards in front of him. “But that’s not the point. Have you even sent out any cards yet?”

“Holiday cards…?” Pete takes a couple of slices of the Veggie Supreme and sets them on a plate in the microwave, shaking his head. “Guess I forgot about that.”

“Exactly.” The tone makes it obvious Patrick had already known damn well that Pete hadn’t sent any cards out. “There’s less than two weeks to Christmas. Where the hell is anyone supposed to find the time to do this shit?”

Patrick is definitely overreacting, there’s no doubt about that. Pete can’t help the fond smile that slips over him as he watches him thread a hand through his hair again. It slips somewhat when he notices how genuinely frustrated Patrick seems by this. “Okay, y’know what,” he says suddenly, watching Patrick’s miserable expression and desperate to fix it, “how about we just send cards out from the both of us this year?”

Patrick frowns. “Like, do cards… together?”

Pete shrugs, sitting down opposite Patrick with his reheated pizza. “Yeah. Why not? I mean, most of our friends are sending a single card to both of us anyway, right?”

Patrick glances down at the couple of cards in his hands. “Bren and Sarah, Travie, Mikey, and Andy all sent cards to ‘Pete and Patrick’.”

“Exactly! They’re saving time by just addressing both of us ‘cause we live together. Why don’t we just do the same?” The more Pete thinks about it, the more it sounds like an absolutely fantastic idea. “We could order them in and get professional photos too! You know those dumb personal cards families send? My parents used to send them all the time when I lived back home. It’d be funny.”

“So… I tell you that I’m too busy to write out cards this year, and your suggestion is an added photoshoot on top of the writing out cards part?” Patrick says slowly. The morose look on his face has turned into a begrudging smile though.

“Okay, we don’t have to get it done professionally,” Pete relents. “We can just take the photo here and do the rest online. I bet it’ll still be easier than writing them all out.” He grins. “Especially since you’ve got me helping you.”

“Okay… Okay, fuck it. Fine.” Patrick sighs, his smiling growing a little. “I’m holding you to that though.”

He leans over to steal a slice of pizza; Pete is pleased enough with his agreement of this new plan that he lets him with little more than half-hearted kick under the table.

**

They take the photo in front of their Christmas tree in the living room on Patrick’s new iPhone. Unfortunately, they also do it after copious amounts of wine – an early Christmas present from Brendon and probably their first big mistake.

Patrick is laughing drunk and hopelessly, body pressed against Pete’s, as Pete tries to get the camera up on the phone Patrick had shoved at him. Their arms are around one another in front of the tree and Patrick has decorated their shoulders with a long strip of Christmas lights that blink continuously; blue, green, red.

“I can’t believe you’re doing a fucking selfie,” Patrick says between giggles against Pete’s shoulder. Pete’s getting goose bumps from the breath on his neck; heat pools in his stomach. He’s in a hazy, blissful state of drunkenness, aware of way too much when it comes to the man stuck to his side; he has to keep reminding himself not to get too comfortable, not to do something stupid.

“I don’t see anyone else around to take it,” Pete says through a smirk, glancing around their empty living room. He finally gets the camera up and stretches his arm out to try and get the two of them and the tree in shot.

Patrick leans in closer so his face is in full view, his cheek almost pressing against Pete’s, still spluttering with drunken laughter. “This is so stupid. You can barely see the tree.”

“Here— Here, how about this?” Pete asks, grinning enough to make his cheeks hurt, and on complete impulse he leans forward to press his mouth against Patrick’s cheek, tapping his thumb against the phone and capturing the heated moment of Patrick’s pink cheeks and Pete’s closed eyes, lips against skin. Patrick’s cheek is soft and warm against his lips, and God, it’s probably really dumb, completely going against his insistence of not doing something _stupid,_ but as he pulls away and sees Patrick blush warmly, still laughing a little, he can’t bring himself to care too much.

“How did that help?” Patrick asks, and Pete’s not sure he’s imagining the way his voice is an octave higher than normal.

Pete laughs it off, even while he still feels the shadow of Patrick’s skin against his lips. “Because. It’s just funny. And we’ve gotta get this photo from all poses and angles, so we can pick the best one.” He pushes their cheeks together and takes another picture. Then he sticks his tongue out, mouth wide open, and takes another.    

If Patrick’s laughter seems a little muted as he follows Pete’s lead and poses for more photos, well, Pete tries not to notice.

**

The whole being in love with the roommate you see everyday thing is bad enough. What’s worse though, is most days Pete doesn’t even get the respite of work to give himself some space from that fucking heavenly torture.

He and Patrick both co-own Folie A Deux Records, the record store across the street from them that they’d bought together six years ago. Pete had been afraid all those years ago that living and working together would put a strain on their friendship, but he needn’t have worried. Pete had never known somebody he could see almost every minute of every day without going insane until he met Patrick. They still sent each other a bit mad sometimes, they still got under each other’s skin, their fights pretty legendary at times, but it was nothing they knew they wouldn’t have completely forgotten about by the following day. 

There are rare days when one of them is working and the other isn’t though. Like today, for example. Patrick was late home last night, performing at a local bar for some extra cash. It means he’s taking the morning off to catch up on some sleep, leaving Pete to make sure things are running smoothly at Folie.  

It’s been almost a week since they took the photos in their living room. Pete has since had three dreams about Patrick – one wet, one entirely sappy and stupid, and one nightmare terror featuring a Patrick who could for some reason read Pete’s mind – and has been caught staring at him precisely four times.

The cheek kiss was a mistake; his addled sober mind recognises that now. He’s given himself a tiny taste of what some alternate universe Pete could have from some alternate universe Patrick and the reality of not being able to have what he wants is sending him a little bit insane, perhaps.

It hasn’t helped that they’d ended up with the picture of Pete kissing Patrick’s cheek on the front of their cards in the end. This – for once – is not Pete’s fault. _Patrick_ is the one who attached the wrong picture when he was filling the thing out online. At this point it was too late to change them – a week to Christmas and they’d already paid the website that sent them.

“It’s fine,” Pete told an anxious Patrick as he stared at the pack of freshly delivered cards with their drunken faces on them. “People will just think it’s even funnier, y’know?”

Funny. Hah. Yeah, fucking hilarious.

It all meant that Pete had spent too much time looking at copies and copies of the picture a few days ago as he and Patrick wrote out messages from the both of them. He heartily regretted how popular they both were by the end of the gruelling hour, most of which was spent staring either at the Patrick beside him or down at his printed lips on Patrick’s pink cheek.

His notebook – full of slam poetry he usually only ever showcases on anonymous blogs – has been filled to capacity over the last few days. Pete finds it hard to stop obsessing.

He’s still thinking about it as he makes his way to work, caught up in the photo proof evidence of not just his lips pressed to Patrick, but of how good they look together in front of that tree. It’s a stilted fun mirror image of something he feels deep in his gut _should_ happen, is _supposed_ to happen, but _can’t_ happen.

Pete is far away and thinking too much. It’s only once he’s moving through Folie Records, past the Jazz that lines the wall, that he realises Joe and Andy are shouting over at him from behind the counter.

Joe’s words carry as he makes his way over, and he catches half of the excited array of words. “—of friend doesn’t tell us something like this, huh?”

“How long has this been going on?” Andy adds as soon as Pete is blinking across at them.

“Can’t believe you didn’t even _mention_ it!”

Pete regrets not bothering with his usual stop at the Starbucks next door, it’s too early for whatever this is. Apparently, his friends – employees too, but friends first – have forgotten what a _hello_ means. “What…? What are you talking about?”

“You and Patrick,” says Joe, as though it’s obvious.

They stare at him expectantly. Pete feels the bottom drop from his stomach at the same rate his heart gets caught somewhere in his throat. He coughs, chokes, gags, and struggles to comprehend how they could _know_. They can’t possibly _know_. Right? His mind races to a stop beside the dream he had a few days ago of Patrick reading every love-struck thought Pete has had about him over the last decade. He shudders.

It takes several moments of Pete blinking owlishly for him to realise that Andy is waving one of his and Patrick’s Holiday cards in front of his face. “The card, Pete. Did you forget? How long ago did you send them? I mean… it’s a pretty good way to announce it, I’ll give you that.”

Pete is pretty sure he’s at least thirty seconds behind on this conversation. He opens and closes his mouth a few times.

“I always knew you guys would get your shit together,” Andy continues. “I got twenty bucks from Joe over this.”

“For the record,” says Joe quickly, slapping Pete on the shoulder. “I just bet that you wouldn’t get together _this year_. I knew it’d still happen, y’know?”

Pete’s brain is beginning to understand a little better. The cogs are whirling and turning and bringing him to one firm conclusion: Joe and Andy are not aware of Pete’s feelings for Patrick. Or at least – they’re not aware in the horrific way Pete had thought they were.

No, they’re just confused. They think he and Patrick are… together. Together like they can never be. Together like Pete has wished every day for the last decade.

“Guys, uh, I think you’ve—”

He’s interrupted by a loud ringing signalling the arrival of someone to the store. Since they only _just_ opened and it’s a Thursday morning, there’s some surprise and it makes the three of them glance up at the door, expecting a customer – probably a student slipping in before classes.     

It’s not a customer. It’s fucking Gabe Saporta. Manager of the Starbucks next door, constant pain in Pete’s ass and Patrick’s ex-boyfriend.

“Pete. How’s it going, man?” He strides up to the three of them, a man on a mission.

“Good.” Pete’s not even pretending that his response isn’t clipped, that his smile isn’t tight.

“Patrick not around?” he asks, eyes scanning the room like he thinks Patrick might be hiding behind a stack of records. To be fair, when he’s sitting deep in 80s albums and admiring the records of his heroes, Patrick almost does fully disappear under the surrounding avalanche of them.

“Nope,” says Pete, shrugging unhelpfully. “Just us today.” To be honest they don’t need all of them to be working – it’s rarely busy enough for three or four of them, but Pete and Patrick hate cutting their friends’ hours.

“Hey, Gabe, you heard the news? About Pete and Patrick?” Joe asks. He frisbees over the _Pete and Patrick_ decorated card and says, “They’re like, together.”

Gabe glances down at the card, eyebrows rising comically close to his hairline. Gabe did not get a card, apparently. Pete definitely wouldn’t have sent him one, but he’s a little surprised Patrick didn’t bother with his half of the cards. He and Gabe stayed friends after their mutual breakup, to Pete’s (possibly unfounded) annoyance. Maybe it got lost in the mail. “Really?” He looks to Pete for confirmation.

Now… here is _not_ the part where Pete should admit the truth. Under no circumstances is he admitting to Gabe fucking Saporta that this is all a big misunderstanding. Not when it’s something he’s wanted to yell at this dumb pretty face for two years now. (Possibly he has some leftover unresolved issues with jealousy. _Possibly_.)

Pete leans against the counter and says words he wants to wish into truth. “That’s right. Me and Patrick. We’re together now.” 

“No shit?” says Gabe, frowning. “That’s, uh… that’s great, man. Wow.” He doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s great, which leads Pete into his long since suspected conclusion that what he was told was a mutual breakup wasn’t actually very mutual at all.

“I know, right?” says Pete, smiling with more confidence than he has the right to have. “Bound to happen though, you know?” Joe and Andy nod rather knowingly here.

Gabe frowns, pauses, and then asks curiously, “How?”

Pete balks. “What?”

“How did it happen?”

“Uh.” Pete has not thought this through. Over the counter of half price old school tapes and a basket of pop punk buttons Gabe fixes him with curious eyes as the silence stretches.

Pete remembers evenings spent watching John Hughes movies, remembers time and time again how he wanted things to go as he leaned against Patrick’s shoulder.

“At home,” he says. “We were at home, and— and we were watching Sixteen Candles again. It was near the end, Jake had just pulled up outside the church for Sam, yknow? And Patrick, he looked at me and…” Pete swallows. He’s not looking at Gabe, not looking at his friends; he’s staring through the front window at the apartment opposite where he knows Patrick is sleeping, but he’s seeing a bright sunny smile and soft pale skin, deep riptide eyes and thick full lips. He blinks, gaze moving to the floor with a shrug. “I kissed him.”

There’s a slight pause, as though they’re waiting for him to continue. Pete supposes they must be; he’s never been shy with hiding details of his latest sexual conquests. He recalls a Christmas two years ago, just before Patrick and Gabe started dating, he’d drunkenly hooked up with old college friend Mikey Way and repeated some of the dirty details to a somewhat perturbed Andy. He’d only stopped because Patrick accidentally knocked over a pile of CDs a few feet away and snapped at them both to help him pick them up – he seemed pissed to a level beyond the broken CDs, Pete’s still not sure why.   

“Well. Alright, dude, we don’t need all the gory details,” jokes Joe through half a laugh as the quiet stretches.

Gabe sighs. “Shame,” he says, eyes meeting Pete’s. “Patrick invited me to go to Brendon’s Christmas party with him, you know? I thought maybe he wanted…” He trails off, brushing a hand through his hair, shrugging as though it doesn’t bother him. To be honest, it’s hard to tell if he is bothered.

Pete is definitely bothered.

He feels the dread of it pool in the bottom of his gut like boiling acid. Patrick invited _Gabe_ to that party? And he didn’t tell Pete? It wasn’t like Brendon hadn’t said when he invited them both that they should ask whoever they’d like to come too. Pete just hadn’t expected for that _whoever_ to mean _Gabe Saporta_ for Patrick.

“Well, I’ll give Patrick a call later,” says Gabe, turning for the door. “See you guys around.”

A jingle of bells later and he’s gone. Pete stares after him for a few seconds, scowling, something bitter and frustrating burning hot under his skin.  

Joe turns his eyes onto Pete. “Seriously, dude. Congrats. I’m glad you guys sorted your shit.”  

Pete blinks, the reality of what he’s set in motion cutting through his annoyance. “I…” He trails off.

Okay, this is it. This is the time to spill the beans. Telling Gabe the truth was not an option. Joe and Andy though… He should tell them. He should let them know he and Patrick aren’t actually together – the card was a joke, a way to cut their writing time in half.

But… Gabe’s face as he told Pete that Patrick invited him to that fucking party is still stuck in his mind. Patrick couldn’t want that. Pete saw how they broke up, he held Patrick while he moped in unfairness against Pete’s shirt. Gabe made mistake after mistake and he blew it. Patrick can’t want that back…

The seconds stretch on. Andy moves to the computer on the desk behind them. “Pete, there’s an email here. Delivery’s gonna be late on Saturday.”

Joe mutters something about updating the Pop charts at the entrance before disappearing from Pete’s side. The chatter and movement of work is starting.

Pride and jealousy are a bitter, vicious mixture in Pete’s gut, keeping him quiet while he should be filling the room with half joked explanations.

He moves over to join Andy and lets his friends believe what they want to believe.

This is fine. This is… fine.

**

It’s only a few more hours before Pete’s home again for lunch, feeling a little bad for abandoning Joe to a lonely Starbucks lunch for one, Andy left to take care of Folie by himself for an hour. He kind of _has_ to get home though. He has to get to Patrick before he wakes up and maybe possibly gets wind of the faux picture Pete has painted around them.

(To be _fair_ , this is a picture Patrick helped paint. He sent off that photo by mistake in the first place. God, it was dumb of them to assume people wouldn’t _think_ things when they saw it.)

“Pete?” As soon as the front door closes loudly behind him, Pete hears the shout from Patrick’s bedroom. “That you?”

“Nope,” Pete kicks off his shoes, calling through the hallway, “It's Harry and Marv. Where's the traps, Kev?”

“Dumbass. Get over here a minute, ya dirty animal,” he’s teasing, but there’s something else in Patrick’s tone. Something that spikes Pete’s anxiety.

Patrick is still in bed when Pete walks into his bedroom. He’s clearly only just woken up, sitting up with his phone in his hand, hair mussed and glasses on in front of eyes seeped with sleep. He’s also not wearing a t-shirt, his pale chest sending shockwaves to somewhere between Pete’s ribs as well as his dick. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Patrick without a top on before – countless times they’ve both walked through the apartment in nothing more than a towel after a shower. Still, the sight of light copper hair over the soft pale skin of his chest does nothing but remind Pete on what he’s missing out on, especially when Patrick urges him closer, brow furrowed over his phone.

Pete sits on the edge of Patrick’s bed by the pillow. Patrick is soft, warm and inviting; Pete tries not to think on how it would be to collapse back and fall into bed with him. He focuses instead on the phone in Patrick’s hand. “What’s up?” he mutters, knowing damn well what’s up. Patrick is on Facebook, looking over about a dozen new messages printed to his Wall. He shows Pete. They’re an innocent bundle of not remotely surprised congratulation.

Brendon Urie  
_!Glad to see you and Pete finally got your heads out your asses! Congrats, man_

Mikey Way  
_.I knew Pete would get over himself eventually. Wasn’t even a little surprised when I got your card_

Hayley Williams  
_.I’m so happy for you two_

Travie McCoy  
_!hope I get to be part of your wedding, bro. awesome news_

The more messages he reads the more Pete feels his face burn hot and tight. None of their friends seem shocked or confused, none of them took that card for the joke it was supposed to be. All of them seem to be under the impression Pete and Patrick are now dating.

“I think people are… confused,” says Patrick quietly after scrolling part of the way down. He puts down the phone and turns his gaze onto Pete. His cheeks are pink and he’s fidgeting, awkwardly pulling his bedsheets further up his chest. “They seem to think—” He gestures vaguely, awkwardly, to the posts. “Um. Well, I guess it was the cards… They didn’t think it was a joke?” It seems half question, half accusation.

Pete hesitates. This is clearly making Patrick super uncomfortable, which is making Pete a whole different kind of anxious – some sort of bitter disappointment he has no right to have. What did he expect? For Patrick to suddenly realise how awesome a relationship with his best friend would be after a couple of friends tell him they think it’s a good idea.

No. Patrick’s uncomfortable and Pete needs to put that right. He needs to let Patrick know it’s not a big deal. So he grins, wide and toothy, and says, “Dude, you totally turned us into romantic icons. We’re the local gay Brangelina.”

Well, Patrick doesn’t look uncomfortable anymore at least, his blush more familiar. “Excuse me? _I_ turned us into…?”

Pete shrugs, nonchalant. “You sent off that picture,” he says.

“By accident!”

Pete says nothing, still grinning. There’s a moment where the two of them lock eyes, a pause as the gravity of the whole situation seems to collide. And simultaneously, the two of them erupt into loud uproarious laughter. Pete feels Patrick shaking with giddiness, head resting against his shoulder.

“God, this is so dumb,” Patrick mutters in half chuckled breaths. Pete watches as he shakes his head, their laughter dying down to aching smiles as he picks his phone back up. “We should probably… tell them, right? I’ll send a group text or something, I—”

Panic hits like a truck.

“No!” Pete is pulling Patrick’s arm away from his phone before he realises what he’s doing.

Patrick, understandably, is now staring at Pete as though as he’s just lost his damn mind.

“I…” Pete has been thinking about how best to tell Patrick his minor mistake from earlier and has concluded that there is no _best way_ to tell Patrick. Just gotta do it. “I, um. I sort of told Gabe, Andy and Joe that the whole me and you dating thing is… true.”

There’s a pause. Patrick is staring at Pete with an almost comical stillness. “Why,” he finally asks reasonably, “would you do that?”

Pete smiles a little nervously. He just needs to push this as nothing to write home about, that’s all. So your best friend told your closest friends that the two of you are dating even though there’s no way that could ever happen? No big deal! “Look, I was going to tell the truth, but… Then Gabe— he walked in and he told me you invited him to Bren’s party.” It comes out much more accusatory than he means it to, perhaps. It’s also not really accurate. He’s ignoring the fact that Gabe told him about the party _after_ Pete lied about the whole dating thing. Uh, technicalities.

Patrick has the good sense to turn pink here, wincing a little with something that might be shame. “That was… I was gonna tell you about that.”

“Yeah? When?” Pete recognises that maybe he’s angrier than he has a right to be. He blames Gabe. He’s got under Pete’s skin. “Don’t you remember how that shit ended?”  

“I know, I _know_ ,” Patrick says, sharp and with a sigh. He pushes Pete aside, padding out of bed and picking up yesterday’s jeans. Pete is quiet as Patrick gets changed. He thinks maybe he should look away, or at least give the illusion that he isn’t out right staring; he flicks his eyes between Patrick’s bare back and the Prince poster above the dresser. Once he’s pulled on the Bowie shirt he wears perhaps too often to be healthy, Patrick turns to face Pete, sighing. His shoulders slump. “I— look, I don’t know, inviting Gabe to that party… I knew it wasn’t a good idea, but it just seemed… better than being _alone_ around Christmas, I guess.”

Pete stares at him. “You asked Gabe to the party,” he says quietly, “because you’re lonely?”

Patrick winces. “You don’t have make me sound quite so pathetic,” he mutters.

“Oh,” says Pete. He doesn’t want to say that. What he wants to say, actually, is: _Why are you lonely? Why are you lonely when I’m right fucking here, man? I’m right here._

“Anyway, none of this explains why you didn’t explain to Gabe and the guys that we’re – me and you – we aren’t an item.” Patrick sounds embarrassed, and Pete’s not sure if it’s because Pete knows why he asked Gabe on what was essentially a date or from the thought of him and Pete being romantically entwined.

“I… Well, you don’t want Gabe, man. I remember how much it sucked toward the end.”

“That still doesn’t—”

“If me and you are dating, you and Gabe _can’t_ ,” says Pete. He says it quietly, but he might as well have shouted it for the ringing silence that follows. Pete didn’t mean it to sound like that, like he’s – he’s _jealous_. And okay, he _is_ jealous, but he’s not supposed to _sound_ like he is.

“That— I don’t—” Patrick’s face has gone from light pink to ruby red, mouth hovering open. “What do you mea—”

Pete’s panic is threatening to strangle him. He can already hear the uncomfortable, horrific, humiliating way Patrick will tell him, soft but firm: _You know I don’t see you like that, dude._ Those Holiday cards are the worst idea Pete’s ever had—

“I just mean,” Pete interrupts him loudly, feeling his own cheeks burn, “that you won’t be tempted by Gabe if we pretend – _pretend_ to date. I mean, c’mon, how do you think it’ll end? If you and Gabe start things up again?”

“Terribly,” Patrick admits. He’s frowning now, something like confusion joining his embarrassment. “I’ll overwork and he’ll get annoyed. We’ll frustrate each other. He’ll… kiss someone else again, probably.” He looks uneasy. “I know…”

“Right,” Pete agrees, ridiculously pleased Patrick seems to actually be listening to this dumb as fuck explanation. “Well, you won’t be tempted by him if we pretend to do this. Just over Christmas – just while you feel, y’know, alone – then we can break up, say we work better as friends, whatever.”

Patrick hesitates. He seems to be thinking it over, still unsure, lip caught under his teeth. Finally, he sighs, then nods. “I guess it… it could make sense, maybe.”

Pete can’t help it: he grins, relief and warmth flooding him at once. “It makes total sense!” he insists. It does, as long as you don’t think about it too hard.

Patrick’s looking wary, like he’s not sure what he’s getting himself into. “Right… Well, I better get over to Folie. God, Joe and Andy are gonna be unbearable.”

Pete watches him for a moment. “Patrick?” Patrick looks back on his way out the door, frowning. Pete only hesitates for a second before he says, seriously, “You won’t be lonely, okay? I promise.”

Patrick is still for a moment; he smiles, sad around the eyes. “Okay, Pete.”

Patrick doesn't sound like he believes him.

**

Patrick’s right: Joe and Andy are unbearable.

“All I’m saying,” Joe leans against the pool table and shrugs, playful in a way that in the past has gotten him close to being punched, “is that I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out you two love birds had been fucking for years already. Not accusing anyone!”

“Good,” says Pete with a raised eyebrow. “Because it’s definitely not been that long.”

They’re at their usual Friday evening bar session. All things Pete usually enjoys - alcohol, pool, shooting the shit. The latter though is full of a little extra unease tonight. All Joe and Andy seem to want to joke about is Pete and Patrick’s newly acquired “romance”. Of course, every time it’s mentioned Pete also can’t help the small bit of warmth that fills him, the merest idea of it doing things to his insides. God, he needs help.

“Closer to weeks than years, believe me,” Patrick says quietly, and surprises Pete by not blushing at all. He’s getting slowly drunk and more obvious with it, leaning over the pool table to take his shot and only succeeding in sending the white straight into the far corner pocket without hitting anything else. 

Andy smirks as he moves to put the white back on the table before pocketing two of his stripes easily. He’s winning and smug in a way that means he seems to have forgotten that the only reason he usually wins is because he’s the only one here whose reflexes aren’t affected by any inebriation.

That’s what Pete always says anyway.

They play until 11pm approaches, Andy winning almost every game (Pete won the first, before he’d had too many drinks to lose almost all coordination), at which point they begin the short walk home. Andy refuses to drive them because of some bull about gas and the environment and it being “a two block walk guys, seriously”.

Normally Pete doesn’t mind too much. But today the temperature seems to have dropped dramatically in the few hours since they walked to the bar and Pete only remembers as they step outside that he’d forgotten to take a coat.

Patrick watches him as he digs his hands into his pockets, shivering and complaining, and sighs. “I _told_ you. Fucking idiot,” he mutters, grabbing Pete by the waist and pulling him close against him as they walk. Pete would like the record to state that he actually did not forget to wear his coat so that Patrick would snuggle up close to him like this; that’s just a happy bonus of possibly freezing to death, apparently. Pete leans into him and maybe it’s the heat of a body pushed to his that’s warming him up, or maybe it’s just that it’s Patrick – Patrick does things to him, makes him sweat, makes him hot.

“Disgusting,” Joe declares through half a smile, watching them from the corner of his eye.

Patrick definitely notices, his blush a minor heat source on its own, but he’s not pulling away and he’s not scowling either. Instead he’s smiling a little, head resting lightly against Pete’s shoulder. It’s probably the drink, but Patrick is better at this whole thing than Pete expected.

“It’s cold,” Pete tells Joe weakly. His hands are still freezing, so he dips one into the back pocket of Patrick’s jeans, feeling the shape of his ass. Patrick jerks his head, just a little, then wraps himself more firmly around Pete as they walk.

Joe and Andy turn off to their own apartments before long, Joe calling out about sharing body heat much too loud for an hour to midnight as they leave. And even though they’re alone now, Pete and Patrick don’t move away from one another. Because it’s cold, Pete reminds himself. Obviously.  

They’re still side by side as they make their way through their front door, leaning against each other until Pete makes a misstep and accidentally trips Patrick right into the wall. Trying to find some balance, Patrick clings harder to Pete’s thin jacket, and they tumble against the wall together. They don’t fall over, Pete holding Patrick in place, Patrick’s back to the wall. And then they’re staring at each other. Pete’s warm now, not from their apartment’s heating, but because of the look Patrick is giving him, the hands that cling against his shoulders.

They’re so close their chests are almost touching, Patrick bending to the side from the way he’d broken his fall. If Pete leans just a little closer, their noses would touch – then their lips. 

“Still a little cold,” Patrick says softly.

“Yeah.” Pete watches Patrick’s eyes dip, briefly, to his lips. He didn’t imagine that. He knows he didn’t.

“Yeah, no, I…” Patrick sniffs, blinks, clears his throat. He ducks his head a little, mouth opening and closing.

He’s going to pull away, and Pete can’t stop it; quickly, he breaks the spell before Patrick has to, removing himself from his side.

As he backs up, murmuring about needing his beauty sleep on his way to his bedroom, trying not to hurry, he decides he must be imagining the small flicker of disappointment that flashes in Patrick’s eyes.

**

Patience is not something Pete has ever done well.

“Patrick, are you done yet?” he calls from where he’s waiting at the front door for the third time in five minutes. Brendon’s party started at least an hour ago. It probably won’t matter; it’s been a decade, but these parties have yet to progress much from ‘teen house party’. There’ll be people coming and going all night.

“All _right_ already,” Patrick’s replies have been getting consistently brattier in tone. He finally leaves his bedroom, patting down his jacket self-consciously and frowning down at himself.

Pete stares. “What’s the matter? You look fine,” he insists. Which is an understatement, obviously. Patrick looks gorgeous; dark jeans, plaid shirt, dark denim jacket. “You know you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Easy for you to say,” mutters Patrick, eyes flying over Pete for a second longer than may be necessary. “You always look amazing.”

Pete grins just as Patrick seems to realise his mistake, cheeks lighting pink. He’ll take compliments where he can get them, however Patrick means them. He slings a hand over Patrick’s shoulder as they leave the apartment. “Aw, thanks babe.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away as they begin the short walk to Brendon’s house. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter if I’m ugly or whatever since I’m trying to make Gabe not want me, anyway.”

Pete frowns. “You’re never ugly.”

Patrick has no reply to that, which is annoying to be honest. Patrick’s always been like that. Blatantly ignorant of his own disarming charm. It’s unfair, frankly.

The party is as lively and full as expected when they arrive. Furniture has been shoved aside in Brendon’s moderately sized living room, leaving room for a DJ and a small dance floor. He always goes a little out of his way with these parties.

“Hey, if it isn’t the love birds,” Brendon says as soon as he spots them, patting them both on the shoulder. “I knew you guys were destined to be together. I bet Spence on this, man.”

Pete frowns. Has everyone been betting on his own failed love life?

“What took you guys so long anyway?” Brendon asks. “This should’ve happened forever ago.”

“I think Patrick’s been playing a long con. Or he’s just been too chicken of screwing up,” Pete jokes, because pushing his own feelings as someone else’s seems better than anything else he could say. Patrick’s gaze is sharp on him, his eyes wide and alarmed. Pete looks away.

Brendon only laughs.

The evening passes much the same, their friends seeming to have only one conversation topic in mind.

“Jesus, you’d think people would have more to talk about,” Pete says after the fourth friend – Ray Toro – has come over to congratulate their blossoming romance.

Patrick’s eyes aren’t on Pete though, they’re on something beyond Pete’s shoulder. Pete remembers seeing Gabe looking rugged and grinning behind him and hopes that’s not who Patrick’s looking at. He won’t check, he _won’t_ check.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Patrick hesitates. “I… I don’t know if Gabe’s believing it – us.” Fuck, of course that’s who he’s looking at. Patrick places a hand on Pete’s, lightly, easy to shake off. Pete threads their hands together.

And because he can’t help himself, he glances over his shoulder. Gabe’s not looking at them, eyes on Travie as they talk quietly together against the wall, though there’s no saying whether he had been looking a few seconds ago, no saying whether he watched Pete and Patrick with a degree of doubt as they stood by the alcohol and dodged questions.

 _Wham!_ has started to play, melodies of former heartbreak and prospects of future love filling the room. Pete turns his eyes back to Patrick, who’s eyes are soft on Pete. Patrick bites on his bottom lip briefly, before saying in a rush, “Maybe we should dance.” Then he clamps his mouth shut. Pete stares at him for a moment. “Or… or not, sorry, I just—”

“Come on,” Pete says, tugging his hand.

They’re on the dance floor in seconds and Pete places his hands around Patrick’s waist before his brain can convince him that this is a bad idea. Patrick seems caught between embarrassment and confusion, between pulling them together and pushing Pete away. Pete’s ready for rejection, but then he puts a hand over Pete’s shoulder, by the crook of his neck.  

“Move, dude,” Patrick whispers gently, because Pete has forgotten what dancing entails.  

They move. Together, getting into a certain rhythm. Pete’s not sure he’s ever been more aware of every touch against his own body. It’s not exactly an erotic song, but the way Patrick’s pushed against him, the way his chest rises and falls, his tongue coming out to lick his lips gently, it’s all enough that Pete is terrified he’s about to get hard right there in the middle of the dancefloor.

His eyes stay on Patrick’s. The song changes, the opening bars of Mariah Carey singing _All I want for Christmas_ filling the room.

“I don’t think he saw us dance,” Patrick says softly, though his eyes haven’t left Pete’s since they got up to dance.

“No?” Pete swallows, hopes he’s not imagining the way Patrick’s looking at him, eyes dipping to Pete’s mouth again. That look doesn’t say _friend_. It doesn’t say _fake_ or _pretend_. It _looks_ _real_ — “Maybe you should kiss me,” Pete whispers before he can stop himself.

Patrick’s eyes widen, just slightly, and Pete’s half panicked, half convinced Patrick is about to pull back. But he doesn’t; if anything, Patrick leans closer. He’s so close…  

“Guys!” Joe is an asshole, a bastard, possibly the worst person in existence.

“Hey!” Patrick says too quickly, bouncing back from Pete as though burned. It’s as though he’s just realised that they’re in a room full of people. Pete blinks, desperate to pull Patrick back toward him and clenching his fists so he won’t.  

“Not interrupting, am I?” Joe asks after a slight pause, grinning between them. Pete kind of wants to punch him, but reminds himself that he’d probably regret it, Joe would be a bitch about it and Patrick would probably think Pete is crazy (-er than usual).

“Course not,” says Pete through false laughter.

“I think you scared Gabe off,” Joe says, looking over their shoulders.

Pete’s head whips round; sure enough, the wall where Gabe and Travie had been stood is clear.

Patrick frowns. “I called him. You know, to let him know I couldn’t come with him as a date or anything, but that Brendon said he should come have a good time anyway. He seemed okay with it.”

Joe snorts. “Don’t worry too much. I think he was hitting on Travie anyway. They're probably looking for somewhere to be alone.”

Pete continues to stare over at the spot where Gabe used to be, wondering how true that could be. He finds it doesn’t seem to matter so much, especially as he thinks back to what he and Patrick were about to do before Joe so rudely interrupted. Pete’s dense, but he’s not so dense that he didn’t see that – didn’t see how Patrick was looking at him. That– That was real. Right?  

Pete turns back to Patrick and Joe. Joe is in the middle of talking to Patrick around a grin and a glass of something clear and strong.

“—and you know, I was kinda surprised Pete was the one to make the first move, to be honest,” he says with a shrug.

Pete laughs, awkward. “Hey, you calling me a coward? Totally not a coward.” This is a lie. There’s nobody more cowardly than him. This entire ruse is a coward’s ruse. 

Joe shrugs. “Nah, just that Patrick was the one with the crush, you know?” Patrick makes a noise like he’s choking as Joe ploughs on, oblivious, “I thought he might’ve been the one to finally do something about it.”

Pete is searching for a point where he may have misheard any of that. He pauses with a beer bottle midway to his mouth. “The – The one with…?”

Patrick is staring at Joe in wide-eyed horror. Joe frowns, blinking between them. “Don’t tell me you never told Pete about your massive fucking crush?”

“His what now?” Pete is failing to see how this could sound like anything other than what it appears. He can’t stop his stunned smile from filling his face as he turns to Patrick, eyebrow quirking upward.

“It’s not— It was a tiny—wasn’t a crush,” Patrick says too quickly. “I wasn’t…”

Joe makes a noise of disbelief against his glass. “You told me you were crushing on him for years, man.” 

“No, I’m _not_ —” Patrick looks ready to sock Joe in the jaw. Joe frowns, the minute prickles of suspicion sifting through his blue eyes.

Pete realises that the suspicion is about one bad denial away from their fake relationship and loops his arm quickly around Patrick’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you cared, babe!” he says through a bright smile.

Patrick blinks, refusing to lean closer. He tries a smile though. “You know me,” he mutters, eyes on the floor.

If Joe still suspects something, he doesn’t show it. He shrugs, taking another mouthful from his glass, and shouts over to Chris on the other side of the room.

Patrick avoids Pete’s gaze for the rest of the party. They mingle, smile and drink the night away. They don’t dance again and Patrick won’t lean into Pete anymore. But Pete feels the drumbeat of his heart pick up in tempo whenever Patrick’s eyes dart too fast over him, whenever their hands brush. Joe’s words have set off a fire of hope in his gut and it can’t be extinguished by any of Patrick’s pushed distance.

The party can’t end quickly enough for Pete. He’s desperate to get Patrick home, desperate to talk to him. He’s not sure how he’s going to say what he wants to say, but he has to do something. Patrick had a crush on him – and maybe it’s gone, maybe it was tiny, but he has to try and figure it out. He has to let Patrick know, hey, it’s okay if you like me, maybe I like you too. 

Because Patrick likes him – or liked him, whatever. Point is there’s some degree of Patrick that would be willing to romantically enjoy some degree of Pete. And it’s not just in what Joe said, there’s that thing on the dance floor. That look— _realrealreal_ – it’s got to mean _something_ , right?  

After a short taxi ride, they get home in relative silence, Patrick heading into the living room where he stands in the middle of the room staring at his phone for a moment, head ducked. Pete follows and watches.

He has no plan, no speech, just hope as he blurts, “So listen, about what Joe said… I just— I want to—”

“You don’t have to,” Patrick says quickly, turning to face him. “It’s… I told you, it was nothing, it—”

“No, but listen,” Pete says quickly, too scared of what Patrick’s about to deny. “It doesn’t matter ‘cause—”

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” says Patrick, loud and perhaps harsher than necessary. “It doesn’t matter, I get it. You don’t need to worry, I don’t— It went away, and—and it wasn’t even anything big, so just forget it.”

Pete frowns. “I don’t want to forget it.”

Patrick makes a frustrated noise around the back of his throat, moving away, turning away. “It’s _fine_ , Pete. Things don’t need to change, I know. We’re still the same.”

“No – No, listen,” Pete insists. This conversation is rapidly getting away from him. He just needs Patrick to shut up and listen for a second. “If you still like me, I—”

“I don’t!” Patrick barks, and he’s shouting now, eyes wide and almost panicked as he turns to face Pete again. “I don’t! Why would I? You’re not— You’re just my friend! Just because people tease us and we play pretend and make like this would be a good idea, doesn’t mean it _would_ be! I know that. I know that dating _you_ would be a terrible fucking idea, okay? I wouldn’t ever want that!” He closes his mouth. The room seems very still all of a sudden.

“Oh,” says Pete gently, on one breath. He nods, even as every cell in his body feel like it’s falling apart at the action. “Okay.”

Patrick is so still it’s as though he’s made of stone. His eyes are wide and his brow is furrowed and he’s not moving.

Pete blinks, once, twice. He’s so stupid. Why would he ever think Patrick could love him? Of course it’s a bad idea. It’s always been a bad idea. He’s always known that.

He just never thought Patrick would say it out loud. And if he ever had the nightmare thought of it actually happening, of him actually saying it… Pete had always thought Patrick would be gentler about it.

Something crawls at the back of his throat, scratches the back of his eyes. He tries to breathe it away, turning around and walking out of the room before Patrick can decide to finally break his statue like composure.

He closes the door firmly behind him at his bedroom.

He won’t break down. He won’t.

He breaks.

**

Christmas is starting off harder than it has any right to be.

Pete is a frustrated, hollowed-out hole of grief for a relationship that never truly existed; it eats at his gut constantly. It’s not fucking fair. They were never dating. No matter how much Pete wishes they were, no matter what he’s told everyone around them. Even the small suggestions that Patrick liked Pete at that party seem ridiculous now.

“Merry Christmas,” Patrick’s voice says, and Pete stiffens. He hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen, where Pete sits at their table, morosely considering every dumb, pointless thought he’s ever had. It’s very early, not even 6am, much too early for Patrick to be even close to awake. It’s also Christmas Day.  

Patrick has been avoiding Pete since the end of that party. Pete spent Christmas Eve drinking alone in their living room while Patrick locked himself away in his bedroom playing music and strumming his guitar. It seems odd that every one of their friends is in the solid belief that they’re together, while Pete’s never felt so distant and pushed aside over the past few days.

“Merry Christmas,” Pete says softly, not looking at Patrick, staring down at the table. “It’s a bit early for you.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Pete can feel Patrick’s eyes on him, but he won’t look over, he won’t.

Pete looks over.

Patrick’s hair is mussed and the skin under his eyes looks shadowed from lack of sleep. He’s wearing his Batman pyjama pants and an old Misfits t-shirt that Pete’s pretty sure used to be his. He looks unfairly adorable.  

“Me neither,” Pete admits as Patrick sits down opposite him. “Nightmares.”

“You should’ve come to me,” Patrick says quietly.

Pete has done that sometimes – oftentimes – wandered into Patrick’s bedroom after a nightmare, lying on top of the covers and sometimes waking him up. It’s always been a comfort, however guilty he felt in the days following it. 

It’s probably been a bad habit; it certainly hasn’t helped Pete on the whole unrequited love thing. Pete’s felt himself falling further and further the longer he spent on Patrick’s bed, listening to him sing while he strokes at Pete’s hair. Going over to join Patrick this morning had been a no-go. It would have just made him feel worse. 

It’s funny. Pete has already spent a decade knowing that Patrick didn’t want him like he wanted Patrick, but now – now, it feels like all the heartache from before was just a papercut compared to this chest pain. Maybe it’s that he’s had some muddled image of what his life could be over the past week and even thought there was a possibility it could come true. Or maybe it’s just because the real truth had finally come out of Patrick’s mouth.

Whatever it is, it’s enough to make even looking at Patrick feel like his guts are being ripped apart.

“I’d rather not,” Pete admits quietly. He can’t ever be touched by Patrick again.

“Oh. Right.” Patrick frowns, his pale cheeks taking on colour as he glances down at the table in some form of anger or embarrassment, Pete’s not sure. Their friendship feels almost irreversibly changed and Pete doesn’t know what to do.

His heart hurts.

He gets to his feet. “It’s Christmas,” he says, realising something. Patrick frowns at him, but Pete moves before he can say anything else. One fast trip to the bottom of their Christmas tree later and he’s back beside the kitchen table, a thin, wrapped square in his hands. “Your present,” he tells Patrick quietly, pushing it over to him. It’s admittedly pretty obviously a vinyl, nothing Pete could do about that.

Patrick is curious immediately. A man who handles these things daily clearly knows it’s a record, and few things thrill him more than new records. He opens it eagerly, his cheeks clearing from red to dull pink.

“Holy shit, Pete,” he whispers, running his fingers over the white casing. Pete smiles, quiet, soft. It’s a pretty rare Prince record, The Black Album; Pete had to bid, argue, save like a motherfucker and fly to New York to get it. If Patrick’s expression is anything to go by, it was worth everything to do it.

“I know that the, uh— black cover? Is way better – rarer. But—well, we’re not millionaires yet, and this is kinda—”

Pete stops, can’t speak, because Patrick has suddenly gotten out of his seat and is crushing Pete close to him, hugging him hard.

“I love it,” he whispers against Pete’s neck. “You’re fucking amazing.” Pete closes his eyes, bites his lip, tightens his hands to fists. God, but it hurts. It all hurts. It hurts that Patrick can hug him like this and not want what Pete wants.

Patrick pulls back, ducking his head. Perhaps he’s realised that Pete isn’t about to hug him back. “Um. It’s not as good but, I— I got something for you too,” he mutters, and disappears out of the kitchen.   

Pete is still stiff and tingling as he stands next to the kitchen table. It seems impossible for the loss of Patrick to sting more than his closeness, but there it is. He just needs to rearrange himself, set his insides right again.

He waits, but seconds pass into minutes and Patrick doesn’t seem to be coming back into the kitchen. Pete moves to follow him, the muttered swears and small bangs and crashes flowing through from Patrick’s bedroom making him frown.

Patrick is throwing socks and boxers from his chest of drawers. His dresser is open, old folders and hoarded music books tipped from the top shelf onto the floor. Pete’s frown turns to amused bewilderment. “You lost my present?” he asks. “Why didn’t you just put it under the tree?”

“Because last year I put it there you opened it two days early,” says Patrick, still digging through his drawers.

“I did not open it,” Pete quickly denies. “I— The wrapping ripped a little.”

“Yeah, because you ripped it,” says Patrick through half a laugh, glancing up at him.

Pete can’t help his sheepish grin. If he ignores a part of his chest that still aches like its dying, this almost feels normal. Pete goes further into Patrick’s room, looking under his bedside cabinet. “Want some help looking?”

“Yeah, all right,” Patrick stands up, giving up on the drawers. “I’m gonna check the kitchen, you double check in here.”

“You think you hid my present in… the kitchen?”

“Do you ever use anything in the kitchen other than the microwave and the coffee machine?” Patrick asks reasonably.

Pete shrugs. “Fair.” In his defence, Patrick is no better.  

Patrick disappears into the hallway. “Just let me know if you find anything. It’s, uh— a package, I guess. Got your name on it,” he calls back.

“Thanks, Rick, I wouldn’t have figured that out,” says Pete, opening the small cupboard of the bedside cabinet. Nothing but a spare pair of glasses, loose coins, a broken iPad and a copy of _A Brief History of Time._ Patrick shouts something else, but his voice doesn’t carry.

Pete moves on to search through Patrick’s shelves, an old box of CDs that Patrick has been meaning to donate forever, he searches through the drawers again, and the bottom of the dresser where countless clothes have fallen. He even checks the cases of Patrick’s trumpet and sax. Every piece of Patrick scattered around the bedroom clutches his throat tight. He’s tempted to give up, would rather escape to his own room and let Patrick search for whatever it is on his own.

Before he does though, he reaches an arm under the mattress of Patrick’s bed as one last resort. He has a wild moment of wondering if he’ll find porn magazines under here, flash memories of shoving his own dirty literature under his bed as a teen rushing through him. Patrick has a laptop and the internet at his fingertips now though, so this seems unlikely.

His fingers do brush against something though, something small but solid, something smooth. He pulls it out and frowns at a small rectangular object, wrapped in silver paper with a little label on it. There’s only one word on the label. _Pete._

“Hey, Patrick, I…” He starts loud but trails off quick, turning over the present in his hands. It feels like a tape. He and Patrick may have had similar ideas, it seems. The two of them, they often come back to music.

His eyes flicker over to Patrick’s stereo in the corner of the room, and more specifically to the tape portion of that stereo. Smiling around the perfect way to let Patrick know he found the present, Pete begins ripping the paper.

The tape has no label, no case, no obvious clues as to the artist or songs on offer. But there is his name again – _Pete_ , written on the tape in red sharpie and Patrick’s handwriting. He frowns. Did Patrick make him a mixtape or something? A mixtape on, like— their friendship? Fuck.

Pete’s impulse control is close to zero; he moves over to the stereo and is inserting the tape just as he hears movement behind him.

“I found it,” says Patrick’s voice from the doorway. “It was on the top cabinet, I honestly don’t remember putting it on there, but it is somewhere you’d never think of looking, I—” He stops as Pete closes the tape holder shut and clicks the play button. “Pete— Pete, what…”

Patrick’s voice is quiet, quiet enough that the tinny voice on the tape – the very same voice, though more unsure – carries over him, “ _Hey, Pete. I, um. Well, this is for you. This has always been for you. It always will.”_ A guitar begins to strum. Pete frowns.  

“Wait,” chokes Patrick from the doorway.

The guitar strums louder, and Patrick’s [soulful singing voice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkNlXo1WfQg) comes through the speakers: “ _I hope this is the last time, ‘cause I can never say no to you. This conversation’s been dead on arrival.”_

Pete has always been struck still with electricity by the sound of Patrick’s singing. Countless evenings he’s attended Patrick’s shows, front row, grin that wouldn’t waver, hands that ached with claps he went crazy with. But now – this – this is like that electricity, that swooping of his gut, but through lightning. Patrick’s words hold him, they still him, electrocuted, to the bone. They ground him and fill him up.

_Realrealreal._

“ _This rivalry goes so deep, between me and this loss of sleep over you_.”

“Pete...” Patrick has moved closer, behind where Pete kneels at his stereo, staring at the point where the cassette is turning tape without mercy. Neither of them move; Patrick doesn’t try to stop the tape and so it keeps going.

“ _This is side one, flip me over. I know I’m not your favourite record.”_

Pete knows the song can’t last for longer than a couple of minutes, but it feels lengthier as he sits there listening to Patrick’s voice, Patrick’s music, the meaning and the words and the melody opening up his chest and holding his heart. This is the opposite of Patrick’s words after that party, this is the realisation of something beautiful.

It’s stops, abruptly – “ _Here is your—_ ” and the tape runs quiet. The whole room is quiet. Possibly the entirety of Chicago, maybe the world. Pete turns, hesitant, to Patrick, who’s stood behind him, looking pained. He moves his hands awkwardly across his chest, swallows visibly. He looks half afraid.

Pete wants to make that fear go away. But he has to know. “That was for me?”

“You weren’t… You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Patrick murmurs, voice small.

Pete blinks, and says through a voice that shakes a little, “It had my name on it.”

“I… I’m sorry, I—” Patrick shakes his head, taking a step back. “I was never— You—you went under my mattress, I—”

Pete gets to his feet, legs unsteady. The song is burnt to his brain, still spinning in his head. He reaches forward and grabs Patrick’s hands. They’re loose in his grasp, Patrick turning away, his face shading red. Pete sees his eyes shine; he sees them blink wet. “Patrick,” he says, silently begging him to look into his face.  

“I’m sorry,” Patrick won’t look at him, but he keeps talking, voice quavering. “I can’t help how I feel though. So, whatever. I know, you don’t, like…”

Pete’s gut has somersaulted somewhere around his throat. “Patrick—”

“You don’t feel like that, and I guess— I should, I don’t know, move out or something, I thought –”

“—no –”

“I mean, I know you’ll probably want some space, I—”

“Patrick, stop—”

“I’m sorry—”

“I fucking _love_ you!” This is the second time a silence a shuddered across a declaration one of them made. This time is different. Patrick is stunned into silence, wide-eyed, and has finally left a space for Pete to blurt out what he’s always shoved down. “I love you like it’s the most normal thing in the world – I love you like how I breathe, or— or how my heart fucking beats, how I _live_ next to you in this world. I love you like… like I’m _supposed_ to love you. I can’t stop. I tried. I don’t know how. I love you so much, I—”

Patrick won’t let him go on. “Why are you fucking around now?” he asks. He pulls his hands back, Pete feels it like ice.

He reaches for them again. “I’m not! I swear, dude, I wouldn’t joke about this.”

“You’ve been joking about this for the last two fucking weeks—fuck, longer. Our entire friendship you’ve been fucking with me,” Patrick says, breaths hard.

“I— I haven’t. Please, Patrick, I love you.”

Patrick’s eyes widen again. “You can’t—”

“I do,” Pete insists, because Patrick is shaking his head in awed disbelief. He looks quite how Pete feels. Pete reaches up, cupping Patrick’s cheek, stroking away a spilled tear. “I love you,” he repeats. “Do…” He trails off, hesitates. He thinks he knows the answer now, the real answer, but he has to ask. “Do you love me?”

Patrick moves quick, and suddenly their lips are crushed together. After the initial shock, Pete kisses back desperately, tasting Patrick, letting his tongue roll over lips he’s spent days and nights dreaming about. It’s everything he's wanted and more. It’s everything he’s needed and more. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat without his brain’s permission, feels Patrick’s arms wrap around his waist as he pushes them both against the bed.

Finally, Pete parts their lips, comes up for breath, as Patrick stares at him with soft eyes. “I wanted to do that… forever,” he whispers. “I... fuck, I love you so much, Pete.”

There is nothing to describe the fireworks-lightning-grenade that just exploded in Pete’s chest as he hears those words come from Patrick’s mouth. He grins and leans into kiss him again.

Patrick is laughing as they grow tangled on top of the bed together, hands hesitant but warm, desperate for more. “I suppose the bass guitar I got you will wait for now,” he mutters. Pete finds himself giddy with lustlovePatrick as his eyes widen.

“You got me a bass?” He remembers telling Patrick he wanted to learn months ago. Patrick nods, grins, and Pete rushes forward to kiss him again. It’s a minute before he pauses slightly, lips tingling. He strokes some stray hair from Patrick’s eye. “You said you’d never like me like this,” he says, frowning, wondering, immersed.

“I didn’t mean any of that… I just- I lied. I was scared,” says Patrick quietly, his arms wrapped around Pete’s back. He stalls. “I still am, sorta.”

Pete smiles, gently, fully, full of hope. “You don’t need to be. Promise.”

Patrick smiles back. “I believe you.”

**

A year, a thousand kisses, a hundred of Patrick’s shows, a reassemble of a bedroom, several hundred sweaty sessions in and out of bedsheets and too many heart stopping, giddy-holy-shit-this-is-my-boyfriend moments later, and Pete lies back, head rested on Patrick’s lap, yet another John Hughes movie playing like background noise. The Holiday cards of their friends litter the room, the Christmas tree in the corner a reminder of several days ago when they posed in front of it with shiny glittering rings on both their ring fingers. Another announcement card for the drama of it all.  

He’s relaxed, comfortable, eyes shifting between the movie and the perfect face of his fiancé.

Patrick’s eyes flicker to meet Pete’s. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“I haven’t been lonely in a long time,” Patrick says softly, and as Pete pulls on the collar of Patrick’s Bowie shirt to bring him in for a kiss, he decides that sending out those Holiday cards together might have been the best idea he ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for getting to the end! comments and kudos feed my cat. 
> 
> you can catch me on tumblr @1833outboy for all things peterick and fall out boy. come say hi. you could also reblog the fic [here](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/181352979136/photo-proofed-kisses-1833outboy-phancon-fall) if you'd like.


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